The door opened with a creak into a sea of darkness, I gave my eyes a minute to adjust to the dull lighting and peered through the doorway. Nothing had changed. I wasn't sure if I thought it would all be different, perhaps I'd hoped it would, but as I looked along the long, narrow hallway that served as the spine of the house I could see that everything was the same as it was all those years ago. I stepped inside the door and flicked my torch on, the beam cast down through the dust filled air, picking out small details, like her name scratched onto the skirting board and the postmark on the letter that lay on the table. Sighing, I closed the door gently behind me; I wanted to be alone with the ghosts of my past.

The door now shut, the shadows pooled around me like water in a sinking ship, if it wasn't for my torch, I could drown in those shadows, dust and shadows, charged with memories of times gone by. And the memories that lurked here weren't happy ones; they all seemed to be tinged by sadness and pain, like the name scratched on the wall. Her name, scratched there out of boredom, left as a reminder to innocence lost brutally, a reminder to the loss of trust, a reminder to madness. The letter too, it reminded me of her. The postmark was a day before her death, the letter itself a tool in signing her death certificate. It was part of the cause that sent him over the edge.

I glanced away from her name and the letter and gazed down the corridor, all the doors that led off were shut. Almost as if the house were in mourning, each room a silent area of retrospection. I looked towards the stairs that loomed to the side of the corridor and swept the torch light over them, even though the beam moved quickly, I managed to see what I didn't want to see. The rust coloured stain that darkened each of the cream coloured steps and the broken rails in the banister, the tell-tale indications of what happened. I could feel my stomach dropping as my sick feeling began to rise. Maybe I couldn't do this, maybe now wasn't the time to face my past, maybe the past is just something to forget about and not confront.

I leaned against the wall and shut my eyes. It had taken me years of counselling to get myself to a point where I could come back here. I knew I had to do this, I couldn't move forward in my life without getting closure on this house. This dreadful house of horrors, but I wasn't sure if I was strong enough. People thought I was mad, others thought it was stupid. How hard can it be, they would say, to walk through a house? Harder than they would ever know, I thought bitterly as I opened my eyes and swung the torch beam onto the stairs. I tracked the light down each step, pausing on the stain each time, harder than they would ever know.

Giving myself an internal shake, I stood up straight and started to proceed down the hall. I smiled as the torch beam came to rest on a photograph. I moved closer and wiped the dust from the glass, there we were. Happy in the summer sunshine, burnt skin that would fade to a tan, smiles that were shaded by floppy, straw hats. We looked happy, and remembering back, we were happy. One of the few holidays we had as children, some beach, somewhere, soaking up sun, splashing in the sea, the quintessential seaside holiday. I looked at her on the picture and my heart ached, in the photograph she had my arm gripped tightly in her arms and her cheek resting on my shoulder. We'd been so close. I turned away as I felt the tears nip at my eyes; I couldn't face her ghost face on, not quite yet.

I turned and walked away from the photograph and instinctively opened the door and entered the living room. The furniture was covered in sheets here, like hulking dead bodies littered about the room. I stood in the doorway and glanced around; this room didn't hold anything for me. Calling it a living room was a joke. It was where our Mother had died, sprawled across the carpet with a fixed stare on her face. I'd found her like that. I was only seven. I'd thought she was playing a joke on me. I'd laughed at first, then when she hadn't moved ran screaming from the room, searching for my Father.

The funny thing is I remember that day so clearly. The ambulance arriving, the police, the questions, and the numb sensation that spread through my body like a winter chill. I'd asked how Mummy had died, my Father had answered that for me in the sweet sickening way that death is always explained to a child, God wanted her, so he sent some angels to come and collect her to take her to Heaven, she was needed there but she would always be watching over us. I'd cried at that, but felt the false sense of happiness that my Mother had died for a reason. It was only later I would learn the full horror behind her death, and that the angels who had called upon her had came in the form of hundreds of painkillers swallowed with vodka.

I'd had closure on this room though. This room didn't bother me. I could still picture her body lying across the carpet and play through that day in my head, but there was no emotion held within that. I felt empty when I thought of my Mother; I'd mourned her and later learned the full reason as to why she'd killed herself. She wasn't blameless and perhaps if she'd been a stronger woman, she could have stopped the madness. I did blame her, and blamed her more for her cowardice than anything else, she killed herself and left her daughters to face up to a monster, it was something I would never be able to forgive. No matter how much closure I got.

I turned my back and left the living room. I glanced at the dining room door then shook my head. I could easily spend my time avoiding the rooms I needed to deal with, but I wouldn't. And with a heavy heart, I started to climb the stairs. I didn't look down as I ascended the stairs, I shone my light ahead and refused to acknowledge the fact that I could be walking on her blood. It was easier this way. Her room was at the top of the stairs. We'd shared that room during our early childhood, and then as we grew up, Father had turned his study into a bedroom and I got that room. I still thought of her room as 'our' room though and already tears were silently slipping down my face as I thought of all the injustices that had happened in our room.

Upon entering her room, I was hit by how familiar it felt. It felt like she would just bounce back into the room any minute now and throw herself down onto her bed like she did every night when she got home from school. Even though so many years had passed, she hadn't aged in my mind. I looked at her stuffed animals that still sat on her bed. Boris the hippo, Sandy the bear, Pinkie the elephant, I sat down next to them and picked them up into my arms. For all these years, her favourite toys had sat on her bed, suffocating in this tomb. I'd take them with me, give them a new lease of life, maybe one day, if I had children, they could play with them.

Slipping the toys into my bag, I knew that I now had to face up to what had happened here. Of what he done to her in here, it was so hard to even contemplate what had happened behind closed doors. That he would even do that. The man I had grown up trusting. The man I had loved. The man who had so willingly abused his own daughter, who drove his wife to suicide over his actions but who left me alone, it seems strange, but in some ways, I was jealous. What was wrong with me?

I was jealous that I didn't get abused by a man I adored. I knew that my sister was his favourite, and after everything that happened, I knew why. I knew he loved my Mother, but after all these years. After all this death, after being the only one of the family to survive it all, I felt like he never loved me. A sensible part of me suggested that maybe it was better that he didn't love me, since his love seemed to manifest itself in sexual abuse, but it still didn't help. I found myself in disbelief, standing in the room where my sister endured her worst times, I found myself wishing it had been me.

I left the room. Standing on the landing, I knew that I wouldn't have wanted to have suffered what she had. She'd suffered in silence as well, never letting on about what happened when the lights went out. Never once even hinting about what she endured, we had had a close relationship but I think she was too ashamed to talk about this. I brushed away some fresh tears. No one knows how long it had went on for either, but from what I learned, that was why our Mother killed herself. She couldn't bear to continue to see him abuse her daughter. I suppose it was wrong in a way to blame her, she probably at times blamed it all on herself, most likely the reason why she took her life. She probably didn't consider that it would just make matters worse.

The time after our Mother died was an odd time. Father was quiet and when he wasn't quiet, he was aggressive. My sister kept her head low during these times, often a bubbly child, she was very quiet. I followed her lead, like I did with everything. She was my role model. The years flashed by, and his mood did improve, although prone to violent tempers, when he was in a good mood, he treated us well. I don't know what made him snap that day; the letter was partially to blame. I didn't know we were in debt, heavily in debt. I didn't know he'd been gambling away all of Mother's money. We were due to lose the house and everything in it, ironically, his actions made sure that we, or at least, I got to keep the house, whether I wanted it or not.

I'd had swimming practise the day it happened. I wasn't due home till after dinner. My sister had arrived home earlier, and from what the police say, he'd attempted to abuse her again and she chose that day to say no. She'd fought admirably, they said, but a girl as fragile as her never stood a chance. I looked back into her room; she'd been dragged by the hair from her bed. Her head smashing against the wall, and again off the door frame as he dragged her out. He raped her where I stood, on the cream landing carpet while she was out cold. She'd came round as he raped her and to stop her screams, he'd smacked her head against the floor until she blacked out again.

When he'd finished and zipped himself back up, he'd dragged her by the legs down the stairs. I moved over and started down the stairs. Each step echoing out as the 'thud' her body had made as he pulled her down the stairs. Until this point, I stopped three quarters of the way down the stairs. She'd come round again here and fought for her life, they'd grappled until he finally threw her through the banister. The rails had splintered and she'd landed in the hall. He hadn't left her there though, something in him had snapped when she fought back. He'd hauled her body through to the kitchen and mutilated it. I stopped outside the kitchen door. This was the big one. If I could face this, I could face anything.

I swung the door open. Strangely enough, like the rest of the house, the kitchen didn't look any different. They'd cleaned it up. They'd had to; it had been drenched in blood. I remember when I first walked in here; I'd been singing some recent pop hit that I'd heard that day, not really thinking as I walked into the carnage. It took me three steps across the bloodied tiles before I stopped and started to scream. I screamed before I even knew what I was looking at. It was instinct. Soon enough, the scene before me began to untangle itself from being blood, limbs and gore. I made out the shape of my sister, covered in cuts, with blood running out of her like a river, she was barely recognisable as herself, but I knew. Then him, impaled on a kitchen knife. The same knife he'd used to kill her.

I don't have much clarity after this point. It was very different to my Mother's death. I remember fragments of what happened after that. Images of the flashing lights, people talking to me, but sounding as if they were miles away, doctors, nurses and finally, sleep. Sleep where nightmares haunted my dreams with visions of her death and the sound of her screams, but even though in my dreams I thought they were hers, I knew when I woke up they had been mine. I stood in the kitchen and stared at the dust covered surfaces. This was the first time I'd been back here since I'd found them. I don't know what I had expected, perhaps that they'd still be here, but it did seem very mundane now, as I stood staring at where they'd lain.

I walked across the tiles and opened the cutlery drawer. Like he must have done, I mused. I selected a knife and closed the drawer. I didn't need to spend anymore time in the kitchen with them; I only had one more thing to do before I could leave. I walked back into the hall and kneeled next to where she had scratched her name into the skirting board. I ran my fingers along each letter, JOSIE. Positioning my torch so I could see the board, I took the knife and started to inscribe just after her name '+ MIRANDA 4-EVER'. Sitting back after I'd done it, I felt a deep rooted sadness wash over me. I didn't want to leave.

All the memories I had here, even though they were sad and painful, they were part of me. I reached into my bag and pulled out her three toys and placed them next to our names. I wanted to be with Josie so much it hurt. I stared at the three soft toys and the inscription on the wood; they spoke of a time long gone. A time I'd never quite been able to leave behind, of when we were children and when I didn't even know I was innocent until it was taken from me. Of the times before Josie's brutal demise and our Mother's calling from God. Of the time of that photograph when our skin burned and we didn't care because we were having fun.

This house was a tomb, and the names on the wood, they were like grave markers. I knew then that I couldn't leave, and maybe that's why all these years I'd been so scared to come back, because I knew once I stepped back inside this house, that would be it. It would claim me. I looked at the knife held loosely in my hand, some splinters of wood still clinging to its tip. My tears blurred my vision as I brought the knife towards me and positioned it just under my ribcage; I knew I was doing the right thing. As I brought it hard into my gut, I swallowed my screams. I didn't want anyone to know what I was doing. I only managed to stab myself three times before I felt weak and fell backwards onto the carpet. As death approached, I thought of her.

Closing my eyes, I felt myself drift. I couldn't feel pain anymore, but I could hear her voice calling for me and instead of the musty smell of the house, I could smell the heavy, fresh scent of sea salt in the air. I smiled, finally, I'd found closure.

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